Because He Loved You
by Brina711
Summary: He loves you. He loves you. He loves you. You repeat this to yourself as you brace yourself for the inevitable.


_Disclaimer: I wish it was mine and not JK R's…_

You went to school with him.

You a Gryffindor, he a Slytherin.

Not just any Slytherin, though. He was tall, pale, blonde, handsome. But quiet, brooding, moody, smart, temperamental and witty – just like you.

The first time he spoke to you in sixth year, breaking the silent, but mutual agreement to never speak to the other, your heart skipped a beat. Why? He was your natural born enemy. Not someone you fancied.

When you were thrown together as Head's in seventh year, you couldn't explain your excitement. Especially to your father.

You two fought, Merlin, like crazy! You were getting to know the real him, the him he never let anyone see except those he dubbed worthy.

So when you ended up snogging in your common room with him, you felt good. And happy that he had chosen you and your mass of wild red hair.

As your relationship grew during school, the two of you secretly snogging between classes, you found that you had fallen in love with him, and he with you.

So for his birthday you gave him something only he could claim: your virginity.

After school, you and he continued your secret relationship, mostly consisting of stolen seconds in Diagon Alley, between disserted shops, or sneaking to his house, sharing his bed for the night, before slipping away as dawn hit, back to your own home.

So when he proposed, you teared up and exclaimed, "Yes, yes, oh, yes! Of course I'll marry you!"

Both of your families were not happy by the news. Your father quit speaking to you and the next time you saw your fiancée, you cried to him about how maybe this wasn't a good idea, but he assured you that love would conquer all – and it did.

Your dad came to accept the man you loved into the family, and soon you found that you and your (now) husband, shared a bed together, because you owned your own small flat.

Your life was just beginning.

So the first time he hit you, you let it slide.

You thought it was slip of the wrist, an accident. And he seemed so sorry about it, too. The way he cradled your throbbing cheek gently, pulling you to your shared room and making love to you right then, convinced you it had been a mistake – he had had a bad day at work, was all.

The second time it happened was moths from the first time, so, again, it slid.

But soon, these hits became a regular thing, one in which you could never tell when, exactly, it was going to happen, only that it would.

You had hung out with Albus that day, so dinner was a little late. You kissed your husband on the cheek, apologizing, only to have him lash out and knock you into the wall.

He walked into the dining room and sat. "I'm waiting for my food." You loved him. So you held your head high and fixed his plate and slid it in front of him.

People began to noticing you withdrawing in on yourself. "Are you okay?"

"What happened to your face?" they would ask. "Fell," you'd mumble.

He became smarter, and knew not to hit your face all the time – you had a large family after all. So you began acquiring bruises along your back, stomach, arms, legs, breasts; whatever piece of your anatomy he decided to target that night.

You found that after the fact, twenty to thirty minutes or so later, he would touch you gingerly. "I love you, I love you," he would murmur as he kissed the newest wound. "Forever."

You couldn't tell anyone. Never. Even if you had tried to. Your husband was everywhere. Despite his sir name, he had gained respect and popularity within the magical world, and no one would ever believe you.

You started becoming more punctual. You knew the exact time he came home, so you always had dinner ready for him, but beware, if it was cold, you should feel his wrath that night.

You got up at the same time every morning to fix him breakfast.

You washed his clothes.

You fed him.

You entertained him.

He had sex with you. A lot.

He loved you.

Yet the bruises kept building up and you felt lucky. No other woman had a husband like yours. He showed you when you had messed up, so you could fix it and move on. Your life was great. Because he loved you. And he told you so every night.

You lay in bed, naked, with him breathing heavily over top of you. You learned to lay there and kiss him back as he moved inside you, bringing you to orgasm, his nails biting into your skin as waves of pure pleasure rocked his body as he let himself escape into you.

He liked it when you moaned his name. So you did so, because you loved him and wanted to make him happy. And he loved you.

Despite sex losing the quality it once had for you (since you were his toy for the night, his doll) you knew you were safe this time. He never hurt you (purposefully) during sexual intercourse. Because he loved you.

He would pull out of you with a hiss, his lips crushing to yours as he lay flat against you, seeming to notice just how delicate and breakable you really are, with one hand in your hair, the other holding his weight off of you. Because he loved you.

"Open your mouth." You obliged.

"Your legs, Rosie, open them wider." You flinched when he pushed into you, but you complied.

"My dinner. Now." You loved him, you told yourself as you closed your eyes as his hard and familiar back hand graced your cheek once more.

"I don't like Albus. His friends are stupid. I'm coming to check on you later. And you better be here." You swallowed hard, your head nodding vigorously as his hand held your chin tightly, forcing you to look into his eyes. "Got it?"

And then the time came for what you feared most to tell him. "I'm pregnant." You braced yourself, cheek turned towards him, the bruise seeming to never truly leave your face (because you always knew it would be back). But instead, he kissed you and rubbed your flat stomach. "I love you, I love you," he whispered to you.

You found things getting better. Months were passing, your belly steadily growing larger, and all your imperfections leaving your body. He stopped hitting you. You were happy. Because he loved you.

But you were still scared. Every day you could see him growing more and more irritated. He would tap the table. "My food," he'd snarl as you moved slowly through the kitchen.

He would growl when you dropped something and he'd have to pick it up for you.

But you were becoming braver. The Gryffindor flared inside you once more and you were laughing. And talking. Hugging and kissing him. "We should buy a house," you suggested.

His hand whipped across your face, his wedding band splitting your lip. "We don't have the money. You and your worthless self keep spending it all." You shrank back into yourself once more.

He loved you.

He loved you.

He loved you.

You began crying and soon you found yourself wrapped in his arms, him rocking you gently, his hand brushing over your head. "I love you, I love you," he promised.

The angry man you came to know as your husband began to slip back in and the day you 'fell' down the steps you lost your child. You wanted to name him Eli. But of course, he wanted to name him after a constellation and your suggestion had earned you a nasty bruise across your back.

It was your fault you 'tripped' and tumbled down those steps, and you paid for it. Dearly. Your safe zone – sex – was no longer safe anymore. He deliberately moved quickly, driving into you hard. Your screams and tears didn't stop him, either. He had really wanted a child.

"Please! Stop!" You wailed one night after he had a particularly bad day at work. "You're hurting me!"

"Shut up!" He yelled in your face and you hardly felt it when he slapped you this time. He was still angry about the loss of his child. He drove harder into you and you felt him shudder from your release, his soon following. "People will hear you," he muttered, not even giving you time to catch her breath as he began again.

Every night it's the same thing. And you sit there, stand there, or lay there taking it. Because he loved you.

You feel his arm slide around your waist, the two of you sweaty after he had had his way with you. His palm pressed into your breast, claiming another part of you for himself. Your body wasn't yours anymore.

"I love you, Rosie," he whispered into your ear, his naked body pressing against you.

You stayed silent.

"Answer me." His hand tightened around the piece of you he was claiming.

You stayed quiet.

"Dammit, Rose-"

"I love you, too."

"Say my name," he commanded, his voice a low snarl, his hand moving over your breast in the way you used to like.

"Scorpius."


End file.
